


old world blues (ignite your bones)

by bismuthBallistics, MdeCarabas



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, critical parents, food is semi-incidental to the fights but it's SYMBOLIC so there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-04-03 15:50:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4106431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bismuthBallistics/pseuds/bismuthBallistics, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MdeCarabas/pseuds/MdeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash and Tucker have a series of food fights. It's a little more emotionally damaging than it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

_“There is an expression in the Wasteland: "Old World Blues". It refers to those so obsessed with the past they can't see the present, much less the future, for what it is.”  
-Fallout: New Vegas_

* * *

 

**_AFTER_ **

The room feels colder than it has in months.

Wash clears his throat, playing with the sleeves of his old green hoodie. “So,” he says tiredly, “I guess this is it. I guess we’re--” He swallows hard on the last word, biting it off before it can leave his mouth.

Tucker stares down at his bedroom floor. “Yeah.” 

His vision blurs, but he blinks past the burn of tears. He doesn’t want to do this, even now. Even after everything that’s happened between them, there’s still a part of him that’s screaming out to cling to whatever pieces they have left. But he can’t, he _knows_ he can’t, because there’s a bigger part of him that knows this is right.

He feels it in his body the way most people would feel it in their heart or mind. He feels it in the way his shoulders are lighter than they’ve been in months. He feels it in the way his legs are steadier, his feet more firm. 

He feels lighter. Freer. 

He looks up in time to see Washington turn away. Wash folds his hoodie with rapid, military precision. He pats it once and then places it on the pile of T-shirts that are already packed away. The stack of neatly sorted clothing is now more substantial than the messy heap in the drawer. 

Tucker isn’t sure how he feels about that.

Wash’s hands pause as they hover over the open suitcase on the bed. “It’s better this way, Tucker,” Wash says quietly, “For both of us.” He doesn’t look at Tucker, but it’s clear he wants to. Tucker wonders what would happen if he actually did. 

Tucker nods and blows out a breath, his hair flipping out of his eyes with the force of it. “Yeah, I know, it’s just...shit sucks, dude.”

“Eloquent,” Wash says drily.

“Hey, you’re not being super helpful about this!” Tucker snaps out of habit. It echoes in the room with the force of his outburst, bouncing off the walls until it dissipates in the air. Tucker inhales sharply, then pauses and runs a hand through his hair, shamefaced.

Washington looks away again. For a moment, he says nothing, rubbing his forehead in that way he does when he’s struggling to figure out what to say. “I’m -- we argued enough earlier, Tucker. I thought we were okay now. Well. Working towards okay.”

Tucker pulls his knees up to his chest, allowing more of his weight to lean against the wall where he sits. “I know. I know, okay? I just. It’s hard to stop fighting.” He gives Wash his best attempt at a smirk. “And I’m tired, too. It’s fucking, it’s gotta be three-thirty? Four?” 

Wash shrugs and drops some more shirts into his bag, then yanks another pair of jeans out of the drawer. 

“I mean,” Tucker continues when the silence starts to make him itchy, “We talked for a long time, dude.”

“We had a lot to talk about,” Wash says neutrally, and Tucker bites his cheek because _well, shit._ That’s true, and it’s fucking infuriating, and _god_ , they’ve really fucked things up.

* * *

 

**_THEN_ **

Tucker looks up the moment Washington gets up from the couch. “Dude, where are you going?” he says, "You’re going to miss the best part. Land wars in Asia, iocane powder—all that good shit.”

Washington rolls his eyes and gives a little huff of amusement. “We’ve seen it together about a million times. We can’t have a movie night without at least _one_ of us putting it on the list.”

“Well, _yeah_ , but--”

“Think you two can handle not talking during the movie?”

Tucker leans forward in order to meet York’s eyes, waggling his eyebrows when they finally make contact. “I don’t know, York, do you think I can handle your _mom?_ ” Tucker doesn’t look up, refusing to break the staring contest, but he hears the sound of Washington facepalming beside him.

“Trust me, Tucker, my mom is more woman than you’ll ever touch,” York jokes. He winks at Tucker and gives a laugh that Tucker happily returns, then reaches out and shoves at Washington, sending him stumbling to the side.

York looks away from Tucker to smile up at Wash. “Why don’t you quit blocking the tv and make yourself useful by getting the rest of us some drinks while you’re up?” he says playfully, “I’m sure your boyfriend won’t miss you too much.”

“I’m sure he’ll manage.” Washington says, shaking his head at the both of them. “After all, you two seem to be more than a match for each other.” And with that, he turns away and starts heading for the kitchen, leaving Tucker staring after him.

“Wait, you’re seriously not gonna watch this scene?” Tucker calls to his back. “Fuck the drinks, dude, this part is awesome!”

“I’ve seen it, Tucker,” Wash laughs over his shoulder.

Tucker stares after him, then back at the TV. The Man in Black raises his sword warily, gazing back as if debating his choices. 

_“--No tricks, no weapons, skill against skill alone.”_

_“You mean you’ll put down your rock and I’ll put down my sword and we’ll try to kill each other like civilized people?”_

He looks back at Wash. “Uh, I think I’ll go help him.”

Tucker walks into the kitchen and grins when he sees Wash bending over in front of the fridge. He slaps him playfully on the ass, causing him to jump up and whirl around. “Guess you already knew I was coming,” Tucker says teasingly, “You got in position and everything.”

Wash rolls his eyes. “Very funny,” he replies. He doesn’t look too upset by it, though, because his nose isn’t doing that stupid scrunchy thing that used to drive Tucker crazy back when they were still just friends. Wash hands him a couple of drinks. “As long as you’ve got hands free, you might as well put them to use.”

Oh, Tucker can put them to use alright. He sets the beers down on the counter and slips one hand into Wash’s back pocket, pressing the other one to his cheek. They kiss, and for a second Wash is soft against him, but then there’s the low growl of Maine’s laugh from the next room and Wash stiffens and steps away from him. 

“Come on, Tucker. We can do that later.”

Tucker grins wickedly. “Hey, if you wanted some alone time, all you had to do is say something,” he says, waggling his eyebrows teasingly, “‘Cause I’m pretty sure no one’s in the bathroom right now, so we could definitely get away with sneaking off for awhile.”

Wash rolls his eyes again, tucking his beers into the crook of his arm to pick up the ones Tucker set down. “Come _on,_ Tucker,” he replies, jerking his head toward the living room in lieu of setting down seven glass bottles.. 

It’s weird, but Tucker cannot think of a time he’s wanted to kiss him more. He knows there has to be at least one and probably a lot more, because Wash looks like the dorkiest thing he’s ever seen, but he cannot remember any at all.

It’s worth a try, right? So he stops Wash to peck him on the lips just once, just a bit, before they go back to the movie, but Wash only frowns at him and shakes his head. “Tucker,” he says impatiently, “That can wait, right? Private time.”

That brings to mind about a hundred jokes about all the time they could spend with privates, but Tucker’s already pushed Wash to his limit and he doesn’t want to see what happens when he snaps. “Fine,” he says, “But you’re making this up to me later.”

“As you wish,” Washington murmurs, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way they do when he’s trying not to smile. Tucker thinks he can maybe deal with having to wait for private time tonight.

“I--Wash,” Tucker begins.

“Wash!” York shouts suddenly. “Beer, c’mon!” 

Tucker closes his eyes and thinks very hard about strangling someone, which is a little dark considering how light he feels. But at least he was saved from saying something too serious, something not hidden behind the lines of a movie. If Wash is shy about kissing in public, god only knows how he’d feel about declarations of… whatever.

“ _Wash!_ ” York calls again.

Wash rolls his eyes like, _What are you gonna do,_ and leaves the kitchen without another look at Tucker, heading toward the living room with an armful of beers and a bounce to his step. Tucker follows behind like a duckling, sitting down just as Buttercup is accusing the Man in Black of killing her farmboy.

Tucker smiles unconsciously. 

Back when they were still dancing around each other, he and Wash used to quote this scene whenever the other was in a bad mood. It became a running joke between them; a way of showing their exasperation after being forced to sit through long rants about whatever was pissing the other off that day. 

No...it was more than a running joke. It was their way of being there for each other without stepping over that line once and for all. As long as they were mocking each other, they didn’t have to worry about sounding too invested. As long as they were teasing each other, they didn’t have to clench their fists to keep from reaching out and trying to kiss the anger away once and for all.

But they don’t have to worry about that anymore. He leans in and whispers the next line directly into Washington’s ear. “Life _is_ pain, Highness,” Tucker murmurs, “Anyone who says differently is selling something.”

Wash makes a small noise of amusement, pressing the side of his head into Tucker’s shoulder for just a moment, and Tucker curls into his side, half in Wash’s lap, a familiar warmth blossoming in the pit of his stomach.

Washington nudges him away again. 

Tucker sighs moodily. Hurt and irritable, he leans forward to tug the bottle opener from Maine’s hand, a spark of pain rushing through him when his finger catches between the opener and the cap. It turns his fingertips raw, leaving them aching, but the beer slides smoothly down his throat and leaves him wanting more.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Wash look down at Tucker’s hand and frown. The bottlecap slips out of Tucker’s grasp as Wash takes his hand, rubbing at the fingers with both hands and soothing away the echoes of pain.

He swallows hard. It’s not the same as being able to kiss him whenever he wants, but Wash is solid and warm beside him and that makes it enough for now.

_“I died that day! You can die too for all I care!”_

* * *

 

**_NOW_ **

Washington fumes as he paces back and forth over the living room rug. “Can you believe the nerve of him?” he says furiously. Neither North nor York responds, both of them pretending to be doing something else. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need an audience for this anymore, he’s just trying to get it off his chest.

“I was _trying_ to be civil!” Washington says, “I asked him how everything was going and he told me to go fuck myself. I’m surprised he didn’t break a glass trying to wipe it clean.” His fists ball up in frustration. Why Tucker can’t ever just-- _ugh._ “I suppose I should have known better than to expect maturity out of him.”

York sighs and fiddles with the old Yankees keychain Carolina got him for his birthday years ago, spinning it in circles around his index finger. “Wash, c’mon, give it a rest,” he says wearily, “We’ve already heard this rant three times this week.”

“Well, it’s true!” Wash says defensively. He stalks off in the direction of the kitchen and then spins around and returns, almost as though he’s remembered something. York sits up quickly, ready to stop him smashing something important, and does he _really_ have that little faith in Wash? “God, why I ever--why the hell did I ever agree to go out with him in the first place?”

York sighs and runs a hand down his face, rubbing at it like he’s exhausted from having to deal with it all. “Look, Wash,” he says tiredly, “Can you really blame him for being difficult after what you did?”

“After what _I_ did!?” Washington exclaims, “York, he’s acting like a child!” 

York’s face hardens unsympathetically. “You came into the place he works-- _while he was on shift--_ with some random guy you met on the street less than a week after the two of you broke up,” he says brutally, “How did you _think_ he was going to take that?” 

Washington feels his entire body go tense and cold. “I seriously doubt he’s wasted any time getting over me,” he says stiffly, “After all, he never had a problem finding people to flirt with before.” 

Wash doesn’t know why he ever felt like he was special.

He clears his throat. “And anyway, Tucker would be a hypocrite if he was actually upset about my behavior.”

“No, hypocrisy is when South yells at me for drinking milk out of the carton,” North replies. He flips another page and returns his gaze to his book, looking far more unconcerned than he probably feels. “What you did what something else entirely. Tucker’s not the only one acting like a child. I don’t blame him for being upset.”

Washington laughs out loud at the idea that anything he could do would ever touch Tucker in a significant way. Even to his own ears, the sound is harsh and grating. “Well, he spent the whole night flirting with the waitress,” he says humorlessly, “So I very much doubt that he gave either me or my behavior a second thought.”

York’s fingers slip on the metal, sending the keychain flying across the room. He winces slightly, and he and North trade wary looks when they think that Wash isn’t looking. “Uh…” he begins uncertainly, “You wanna explain that comment for us?”

“They seemed close,” Washington says bitterly, his eyes dropping to the floor to avoid their sympathetic gazes, “Like they’ve known each other for a while. I suppose they must be co-workers or something.” He shakes his head bitterly. “They were all over each other all night long. I don’t know why I was surprised.”

After all, Tucker never had trouble moving on before.

* * *

 

**_THEN_ **

“You’re late,” Washington says mildly, not even bothering to look up as Tucker pulls out the chair in front of him. He thumbs through his menu, eyes blindly flickering over items he’s already half-memorized. “Just like always. I’d suggest scheduling our dates half an hour later, but something tells me that won’t exactly help all that much.”

 

“Oh, don’t fucking start this again,” Tucker replies, “It’s twenty fucking minutes, it’s not going to ruin anything.” He scowls at Wash across the table, meeting his gaze for just a second before looking away to scan the restaurant.

Washington’s jaw clenches. “It’s not about ruining anything, it’s about being considerate for other people,” he says through gritted teeth, “I shouldn’t have to constantly sit around waiting for you to show up--”

Tucker’s hand jerks through the air angrily. “Do we have to do this now?” he demands to know. His voice snaps out loudly enough for a few people to turn to stare. “Seriously, can we get through one fucking date without you complaining about what I got wrong?”

“If you would just do the right thing, we wouldn’t have to keep having this conversation,” Wash says in frustration, “I’m not trying to start a fight with you, I just wish you would--” He cuts himself out, groaning in frustration. 

All their conversations seem to lead down to this road. He can’t ever bring up any legitimate complaints without Tucker accusing him of being needlessly nitpicky or overly critical, so all of the issues are constantly getting swept under the rug. Sometimes it feels like half their time together is spent having the same three arguments over and over again.  

Washington sighs and runs a hand down his face. “Fine,” he says wearily, “Never mind. We’ll talk about it later, just like we always do.” 

That way absolutely nothing has to change.

After that, they fall into an uneasy silence that neither of them attempts to break. He searches for something to distract him from tension, eyes flickering around the premises for some tiny thing to turn into conversation. A few feet away, the waitress he met earlier is hurriedly wiping down a table while anxiously glancing at the door. Across the room, a mother is leaning in with a strained smile, attempting to calm her noisy toddler with the red balloon tied to its stroller. In the corner, a student is pecking away at her laptop with one hand while absentmindedly shoveling noodles into her mouth as if this is the first meal she’s had in days. 

It’s the usual sort of crowd for this type of day, even though there’s none of the regulars they’re used to seeing when they come here every week. Or--wait, no, to their left. There’s that teenager that spilled an entire cup of soda all over Tucker’s shoes the second time they came. She’s sitting with a boy Wash hasn’t seen before. As Washington watches, the boy leans into her from across the table and tangles his fingers with hers, rubbing his thumb in circles around her wrist. He takes a long sip from a Coca-Cola with two straws in it sitting between them, and she giggles as she reaches up to brush his hair out of his eyes.

Public place or not, the moment is too personal for strangers to share, and he has no intention of making them feel awkward or uncomfortable for being so affectionate. He looks away to give them privacy, and out of the corner of his eye he spots Tucker turning away from them as well. Their eyes connect and Wash’s heart pounds loud in his ear; for a second, he swears he spotted something like wistfulness shining from behind those eyes, and his stomach swoops hopefully.

They’ve been together for over four months, but he can’t remember either of them ever acting that way before. If they did, he must have wiped it from his memory, pushing it aside like Tucker does with his dirty laundry or half-eaten food. 

But there’s always time to start, fingers crossed.

Washington offers his boyfriend an uncertain half-smile; Tucker’s face smoothes over and he cracks a cheerful grin in return. “At least we were never as bad as all that, right?” Tucker says carelessly, his eyes crinkling, clearly expecting Wash to join in and share the joke.

Washington sighs, mood souring as quickly as it had risen moments ago. It isn’t enough that Tucker has to act so dismissively towards their own relationship, is it? No, he has to mock someone else’s as well, sneering at a functioning relationship as if it were something shameful or annoying. He turns away from Tucker and says simply, “I thought it was kind of sweet.”

He assumes Tucker rolls his eyes at that, but he doesn’t bother to look over and confirm. He refuses to do it. He doesn’t want to see his boyfriend staring at him with disgust or dismay; doesn’t want yet another confirmation that he’s the only one who cares if they crash and burn.

It doesn’t matter in the end, because the waitress swoops down with their plates -- kai yang with sticky rice for Tucker, and pad thai for Wash.  “I already ordered for you,” Wash says listlessly, “I hope you like what you got, because it’s far too late to order something new.”

Tucker scowls down at his food almost automatically; then blinks when he actually focuses on his plate. In the span of a second a change seems to come over him. His whole body relaxes back into his seat, and when he looks up at Washington he’s actually smiling. “Hey, you got me what I was gonna order anyway.” 

Washington flushes under the unexpected warmth of Tucker’s gaze. “Of course I did,” he replies blandly, “You spent all week whining about how much you wanted some.” It doesn’t come out nearly as irritable as he wanted it to, but he never can hold on to his anger when Tucker’s looking at him that way.

For all his faults, Tucker has always known how to show appreciation for the little things in life.

The waitress gives them a smile that’s tired but earnest, and the two of them tilt their heads up to give her the attention she deserves. “Can I get the two of you anything else?”

“Nah, we’ve got everything we need,” Tucker says, winking at her playfully. His eyelashes lower almost flirtatiously, but it’s Wash he’s watching out of the corner of his eye. Beneath the table, their legs entwine. He doesn’t usually feel comfortable with PDA, but just this once he lets his foot press gently into Tucker’s calf. It rests there for only a moment, but he’s pretty sure Tucker still got the message he was trying to send.

Something Wash can’t quite pinpoint flickers across Tucker’s face, but then he grins and Wash feels pretty good. “Alright, you two let me know if you need anything.” The waitress says, waving a bit as she turns to leave. Tucker’s eyes track her as she walks away, and Wash frowns, his mood dropping like a thermometer in a bucket of ice water.

“So hey,” Tucker begins cheerfully, as if he wasn’t just caught checking someone out in front of his _boyfriend_. “Do you want to share some of my--”

“No thank you,” Wash says tersely, “I’ve got my own.”

Tucker hesitates, looking vaguely unsettled. “All right,” he says warily, darting a wobbly grin his way as he reaches out towards Wash’s plate with his fork, “Then I’ll just--” 

Without saying another word, Washington reaches out for the Sriracha sauce and messily squeezes out the contents while carefully avoiding looking at Tucker. He’s always liked his food to be as spicy as it can get, even if Tucker isn’t much of a fan. 

Tucker freezes with his fork in the air. He backs off, blinking rapidly, then his face hardens and he looks around the restaurant as if searching for something. “So, uh, where do you think the waitress is, anyway? I was going to order a drink before, but I totally forgot about it until she was walking away.”

“Oh,” Wash says. He stomach rolls queasily even though he hasn’t had anything to eat. He must be coming down with something. “We can wave her over, I think,” he says hesitantly. She’s serving the young couple right now, refilling their waters as they split an entree and play an incredibly obvious game of footsie under the table.

“Yeah,” Tucker says. “I’ll ask when she’s done, I guess.”

Tucker pokes out at his food listlessly, his expression bored, and scrapes his fork noisily along the plate. Wash can feel his blood pressure tick up a notch, but he fights that down and smiles stiffly. “How’s the food?”

“Haven’t eaten any yet,” Tucker replies coolly.

That’s obviously a setup for Wash to start asking questions, so he does. After all, it’s his fault Tucker’s upset in the first place. “Why not?”

Tucker shrugs and leans back, rolling his eyes up at the ceiling. “Just not in the mood for it, I guess.”

Washington takes a bite of his food to stall for time. The Sriracha-smothered pad thai burns as it makes its way down his throat. “But you’ve been asking for it all week,” Wash says slowly, “You seemed...eager to finally be able to get some.” 

He waits almost hopefully for the inevitable reply. If Tucker responds the way he always does, then everything’s okay. They can finish their dinner in peace without either one of them having to struggle to make things right. 

But the familiar words never come. The ones that do, however, are more devastating than anything Washington could have imagined. “Yeah, well,” Tucker says mockingly, “I guess sometimes I’m not as into things as I say I am.”

Washington reels back in his chair, feeling his face start to burn. There’s a tightness in his chest that wasn’t there before; it’s bizarre, because spicy food never affects him like that. Maybe he is getting sick. He manages to choke out the only words he can think of saying: “I think the waitress is done with that couple now.”

“Mm-hm.” Tucker idly swirls his water with a straw, like he doesn’t even care. Like he doesn’t even _care_ that he crossed that line. Like it’s perfectly okay to insinuate that his boyfriend isn’t capable of--that he can’t--and on a _date_. 

Across the table, Tucker’s smile is so placid as to be smug, and his eyes are alight with gleeful satisfaction. Washington’s fingers wrap tight around his fork. "You know what, Tucker? You're absolutely right. Sometimes things that seem satisfying one moment can be anything but once you finally have it."

Tucker’s expression doesn’t change one bit, but the _emotion_ behind it alters and shifts. Something cold takes its place and Wash is less happy to see it than he thought he would be; he doesn’t regret his words, not exactly, but he didn’t come here today with the desire to hurt. Sometimes it’s just easier to do that than it is to talk things out.

Tucker raises a hand to wave at the waitress as she passes by, and Wash thinks for a minute that he’s won. Then Tucker starts talking. “Hey there,” he says, “Sorry to stop you, but - I don’t think I recognize you. How long have you been working here?”

She looks at him, tilting her head like he’s a species of alien who just tried to hand her a fish. “I -- a week and a half.”

Tucker snaps his fingers, grinning at her. “That explains it. I’m Tucker. Nice to meet you.”

“Danai.” She smiles back a little uncertainly, and her eyes dart to Washington. Wash hopes the way he’s fuming doesn’t show on his face.

“Cool name.”

Danai smiles more confidently. “Thanks. So, can I get you anything?”

Wash waits for Tucker’s smile to fall off his smug fucking face at this blatant rejection, but Tucker just winks broadly. “A Coke for me and a refill for _my friend_ ,” Tucker says, eyes meeting his across the table. Wash blinks stupidly back at him while Tucker holds his gaze like it’s on a chain. Tucker nods slowly, just once, just long enough for Washington to get a sinking feeling in his belly, then he tilts his head up to grin at Danai as he continues, “And your number, hot stuff.”

Wash chokes on a noodle and promptly starts coughing violently, causing Danai to jump up in alarm. “Are you okay?” she blurts out nervously, “Do you need water? Oh my god, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Wash forces out, cheeks burning from a combination of embarrassment and lack of air. Frantically, he reaches across the table for Tucker’s water and downs the contents in three large gulps, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat.

Tucker watches him with a total absence of concern. “Pssh, I wouldn’t worry about him,” he tells her, waving a hand in the air dismissively, “He’s tough, he’ll get over it.” Tucker’s eyes flicker over his for only a second before immediately going back to focus on her. “So, where were we?”

She blinks owlishly back at him, visibly struggling to get back on track. “Um,” she says, looking back and forth between the two of them, “A Coke for you, and a refill for your… ”

Tucker leans in so that his shirt falls open slightly, showing off his collarbone. He grins up at her and says, “We don’t really like labels. We’re more of a--”

“We’re over, actually,” Wash smiles sunnily at Danai, and Tucker whirls around so fast his chair nearly tips over.

“W-what?” he stammers.

“We broke up,” Washington says, his voice and face as neutral as he can make them. He slurps at the ice of his stolen drink and nods when the two of them stop to stare. “We’re over. We’ve been over for quite some time.” 

It might just be the truest thing he’s ever said.

* * *

 

_"High up above or down below_  
_when you're too in love to let it go._  
_But if you never try you'll never know.”_  
_-Coldplay, “Fix You”_

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**PART TWO**

**_NOW_ **

Tucker nurses a beer at the bar, sulking as he slumps over the counter. Four months ago, he would’ve been down on the dance floor with everyone else. Four months ago, he would’ve been leaving the dance floor to catch his breath, sitting next to someone waiting with two beers and a smile.

A lot can change in a couple of months. 

But hey, at least there are some hot chicks in here. It’s a pretty popular club in town - not really the kind of place Caboose would choose to have his birthday, but that’s what you get when you put Donut and Sister in charge of party planning. Whatever. It suits Tucker’s purposes anyway, because with so many people hanging around, the odds are pretty good that he can find someone to hook up with later if he suddenly gets in the mood.

Or...heh, maybe even right now. 

A hot brunette sidles up to the bar a ways away from Tucker and orders a beer. Tucker smiles and picks up his glass, standing up to go over to her. It’s been awhile since he’s done this for real, but he knows he still has the moves. It’s just like riding a bike, right? Except if he does it right, it’ll be somebody else riding _him_ for a change. All he needs is the right line…

Yeah, the right line and for her _not to have a boyfriend already._  

Tucker watches bitterly as some dude walks up to the chick he was going to hit on and wraps his arms around her waist like it’s the only place they want to be. She leans into him, smile coming like a burst of sun, and Tucker has to swallow the rest of his drink to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth.

The other guy bends to press a kiss to the girl’s cheek. His blonde hair -- scruffy, pale blonde like North’s, not that dirty honey color Tucker mistakenly thought he had at first glance -- brushes against her forehead, and she smirks and slaps his ass, causing Blond Guy to laugh in response.

Tucker feels the beer in his stomach twist and burn. He contemplates his empty glass mournfully. With a sigh, he slides back down on the barstool, glancing to his left when he notices someone in his peripheral vision. And whaddya know, here comes another blonde douchebag to ruin his night. _Yeah_ , this empty glass isn’t going to cut it. 

“Hey, another one over here, okay?” Tucker calls. 

“Alcohol isn’t really a healthy way to solve your problems,” Wash says instead of hello, which is what people who aren’t dicks say instead of criticizing people whose lives they have no say in anymore. But what the fuck else is new? It’s not like he ever managed to stop himself before.

Tucker resolutely fixes his eyes on the mirror behind the bar instead of turning to face him. “Yeah, well, fuck off, you’re not exactly sober yourself,” he says irritably. Not after having two beers in less than an hour on top of those shots the others forced on him when the night first started.

Washington inhales sharply through his nose, doing that stupid thing with his neck he does when he’s uncomfortable. “I’m not trying to start a fight,” he says snippily, “I just think you should slow down a little, that’s all.”

The bartender places his drink in front of him almost on cue, and with a slow, pointed motion, Tucker picks it up and mockingly raises the glass in toast, smiling coldly at the Washington reflected in the glass.

Wash’s hands come up to rest on the counter, face finally shifting away from Tucker’s profile in order to stare down at the bar. He fiddles with a napkin someone left  behind. “Why do you always have to be like this?” he mutters unhappily, “I’m just trying to look out for you. Why do you always have to throw it in my--"

“You don’t get to look out for me anymore,” Tucker snarls suddenly, fury coming on him like the wrath of the gods, “You lost that right when you broke up with me a month ago.” And at the place they had their first date, no less. What a _dick_. And he has the nerve to make it sound like he actually gives a shit about anyone else. 

“Looking out for me,” Tucker repeats in disbelief. He snorts resentfully, fingers clenching around the glass as the memory comes over him again. “Yeah, that must be why you made sure I saw you go off to fuck that guy in the bathroom. ”

Washington’s jaw clenches. “I didn’t--”

And you know what? Tucker isn’t in the mood to hear his excuses and it’s not his job to listen to any of the bullshit that comes out of Washington’s mouth. “Oh, fuck off,” he says with a sneer, “I don’t wanna hear it.”

“I just pretended--”

“You know, I thought you had _standards_ ,” Tucker interrupts, voice as casual as can be, “Didn’t think that douchebag was your usual type. Way too bland and boring. I could’ve sworn you liked your dates to be a little more interesting.” But _apparently_ Wash doesn’t think interesting is the same thing as _satisfying_ or he wouldn’t have broken up with Tucker in the first place.

Fuck _that._

“You know, you two weren’t in there very long,” Tucker says, smirking when Washington stiffens at the reminder. “He must be better than I gave him credit for.” His smirk deepens as he goes in for the kill. “Or maybe your stamina hasn’t improved at all.”

Even in the dark light of the bar, even through his warped view from the mirrored glass, he can still see Washington’s eyes go black with hatred. All at once, the temperature in the room drops down to sub-zero. Tucker shivers from the chill and the anticipation, muscles going tight in preparation for whatever comes next.

As always, Washington delivers perfectly.

“Well at least,” Wash says slowly, “He actually was invested in getting me off.”

Tucker turns slowly in his seat to face Washington properly, and Washington doesn’t lean back. They’re so close that any personal bubble they might have had popped long ago, and Tucker can feel Wash’s breath ghosting over his cheek.

That sounds like a challenge if Tucker’s ever heard one.

Tucker lets his eyelashes flutter shut, swaying into Washington’s body like he’s moving against his will. That familiar scent lingers in the air; that stupid flowery perfume Caboose got him instead of cologne that Wash wore everywhere. Tucker used to tease him about it all the time, used to pull at his clothes and demand he take it off. Used to threaten to throw him back in the shower and wipe the smell from his skin. 

But they never did. Instead, Wash would pull him in with a smile and force Tucker’s head into his neck, hands holding tight so he couldn’t move away. He used to pretend he hated it, sometimes, but they both knew it was a lie. Tucker breathes it in, and feels Wash’s hands come up to bury themselves in his hair.

“Tucker,” he hears Wash murmur through his haze, and he tears himself away from those thoughts, clawing at the memories that want to rise. He has a plan and he intends to follow it. He pulls back as far as he can without pulling himself away from those hands, arching into Washington’s body even as he lets his eyes fall open again. He lets his eyes go heavy and smouldering, tilting his face up like he’s ready for a kiss.

Tucker knows what he looks like, and he knows that Wash has never been able to resist him when he looks like this. He wets his lips as he leans forward, watching smugly as Washington blindly follows their path with eyes that are dark with want. 

He doesn’t want to wait any longer to spring his trap. He leans in once again, mouth hovering over Washington’s until their lips brush with every breath they take. But they don’t kiss each other, no, not yet  - he waits until Wash’s breath goes shuddery and comes quick, hands clenching helplessly in Tucker’s curls, and then he _gasps_ Wash’s name into the space between them.

Just like that, Washington _breaks_ , diving forward to slot their lips together and moaning into Tucker’s mouth the moment they touch. It’s easy and natural - so fucking natural - and they open up to each other like they have a hundred times before.

Tucker licks the lies from Washington’s lips, smirking inwardly all the while. What was that, Wash? Tucker’s not _satisfying?_ Yeah, tell that to the whimpering puddle of goo currently situated in Tucker’s arms. Tell that to the hands that hold him like they never want to let him go.

When he pulls his head back, Wash follows him instantly, swaying in for another kiss, long and slow and soft. He can feel Wash pressing deeper against him, knees knocking as they stretch out and pull themselves half out of their seats. Wash is melting against him, and for a second Tucker wants nothing more than to melt into him too. 

A month ago, this was all he wanted. A month ago, this was all he ever thought he’d ever need. He used to fantasize about this every time they were together, daydreaming of a time when Wash would forget his shyness and all his reserve and finally let Tucker kiss him in front of everyone and show the whole goddamn world just how lucky they were.

Wash is kissing him and he doesn’t seem to care about who sees him do it, and it would be so fucking easy to pretend that nothing but this has changed between them, so fucking easy to let himself act like it isn’t all coming too little and too late. 

But that’s not part of the plan.

Wash’s eyes are closed, like this is a dream he doesn’t want to wake up from, and Tucker smirks to himself. Sucker. He kisses Wash a little deeper and without warning, bites down _hard_ on the soft flesh of his ex-boyfriend’s lip.

Washington recoils, eyes flying open in shock, scrambling backward at the sudden burst of pain.  Tucker catches him before he falls off his barstool, pulling Wash into his arms in a blatant mockery of affection, smile crawling over his face, sweet and poisonous.

Gravity slips Wash tight to his chest, legs sprawling out until he’s practically in Tucker’s lap. “Did you want him as much as you want me?” Tucker says bitterly. He snaps his teeth shut around the shell of Washington’s ear and hopes it _bleeds._ “Is that why you were all over him that night?” 

Is that why he let some stranger he only knew for four minutes touch him in public when he pushed his boyfriend away for four whole months?

He feels his face go frozen with rage, chest going tight at the very thought. The blood is rushing in his ears, blocking out the sound of the music playing in the background, and all he can hear is the sound of their breathing in a quick staccato unison, and Wash’s heart beating frantically in his chest.

Fingers dig into Tucker’s waist, pain piercing through the daze of all that bitter emotion. Through it all, he feels Washington’s breath hot in his ear, and the hum of his voice against his neck is far sweeter than the words he says.

“ _More,_ ” Wash whispers.

It takes a moment for Tucker to understand, to reconcile Wash’s burning tone with the warm glow that comes from the idea of Wash _begging_ for him, and by then Washington is already pulling him in with possessive, angry hands. “More,” Wash hisses spitefully, “I wanted him so much more than I ever wanted you.”

Bullshit. _Bullshit_. 

His fingers clutch and pull Wash in, tugging him closer even as his mind screams out at him to shove him away. It’s not enough - it’ll never, _ever_ be close enough, because Wash can despise him for the rest of eternity and Tucker’s body will still want him near. 

It would be easier if Tucker could figure out how to hate him. The best he can do is make Washington feel it for him. His fingers scramble over Washington’s back, tugging that stupid button up shirt out of his pants until he touches bare skin. The hairs on Washington’s back stand up like they’re trying to get closer, as close as they can, as the pads of Tucker’s fingers ghost over them.

He forces himself to stop holding Wash, to stop his grip getting tighter and instead to release his ex’s waist. One hand flies to Wash’s collar, where every button’s done up like a uniform. Tucker twists his fingers tight in Wash’s shirt as he yanks them undone, head diving down as soon as all that skin’s uncovered, licking his way down the path he makes until he tears a moan from Wash’s mouth. Muscles work hard against his lips, clenching and moving as Wash squirms against him. 

It’s bullshit. It’s bullshit, it has to be, because Tucker spent months memorizing every method to drive Wash wild, refining his technique with practice and care in order to give Wash the time of his life. No random cocknozzle could turn Wash into this shaky, shivering mess the way Tucker _already has._ He pushes the shirt to the side and bites down on the hard nub of Wash’s nipple, tongue swirling and flickering around it. Wash inhales sharply, fingers suddenly frantic as they come up to cling to Tucker’s shirt, twisting and tugging it out of shape. 

The bartender coughs pointedly and Tucker huffs a little breath against Wash’s chest, pulling his lips off Wash’s nipple with a pop that has Wash digging his fingers into Tucker’s shoulders. He knows this dance. Frankly, Tucker’s more than a little surprised Wash let it get this far.

“We can take this somewhere else,” Washington says breathlessly, causing Tucker’s head to jolt up in shock. Wash squirms again, pointedly this time, grinding their cocks together through their jeans. “No one will miss us. We can go to the bathroom right now and no one will notice.”

Tucker swallows hard and sneers, “Thought you said you didn’t want me?”

He doesn’t sound nearly as angry as he wanted. The words aren’t infused with the sarcasm and bitterness he tried to fit into his tone. Instead Tucker sounds scared and hurt, and he tramps that down instantly as he schools his face into a confident smirk.

Wash grins wickedly, ripping the words from Tucker’s mouth before he can even attempt to fix things. His heart beats faster at the look on Wash’s face, blood rushing in his ears as he realizes what’s about to happen.

“Well,” Washington says as he shoves his hand roughly in Tucker’s jeans and palms at Tucker’s cock, “Why don’t you try to prove me wrong?”

* * *

  
**_THEN_**

“This is stupid,” Tucker says as Wash headshots him from across the canyon with a sniper rifle. “This is so-- how are you good at this?! You’re like the most boring person on the planet!”

Smugness is not a look that appears on Washington's face very often, but it's visible now, as clear as day. It’s surprisingly attractive, in a weird way. Like he’s getting a glimpse into a version of Wash that not many people get to see. 

It makes Tucker feel kind of funny. Like he’s warm, or...glowing, maybe? Unless that’s something only pregnant women feel. Tucker’s never been pregnant, he wouldn’t know.

“Sniping is for little bitches anyway,” he says, clearing his throat as he respawns. “Melee combat kicks, like, four hundred percent more ass.”

“Tell that to my killcount,” Wash smirks. From where he’s seated on the couch, it would be so easy for Tucker to just lean over and skip all that bullshit he’s been planning, just plant one on him without having to think about what restaurant Wash would be most likely to say yes to. It would be so easy to--

...Get sniped thirty seconds out of the spawn camp. 

“Bullshit!” Tucker shouts at the screen, tossing down his controller. “Bullshit! I want a ref!” Wash almost chokes laughing at Tucker’s mini-tantrum.

Tucker grins. Success.

* * *

**_NOW_ **

“I want the pasta and a long island ice tea,” South says dismissively, studiously avoiding eye contact via an intense game of Bejeweled on her phone. “I’ll tip you twenty if you get the bartender to make it strong.”

She’s been playing that stupid game for the last week and a half, competing with Carolina to beat Tex’s best score. Whichever one of them manages it first gets a week's worth of lunches on the other person’s tab -- drinks included. South seems pretty confident she’s got this one in the bag.

“Hang on a sec,” North replies. He smiles sheepishly up at the waitress. “Sorry, but we’re not all here yet. Would you mind waiting to take our order?”

The waitress purses her lips, glancing over her shoulder at the kitchen. “We’re really busy tonight,” she says, “But I can--”

York shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he tells the waitress, then turns to North and says, “It’s fine. We can order something for Wash and he’ll just have to deal with it when he gets here.”

Tucker fiddles with his straw for want of anything better to do, stabbing it irritably in his drink until stress lines appear in the plastic. Wash had better be fucking dead in a ditch after all those times he scolded Tucker for being late. 

“Chicken cacciatore,” York says, nodding at the menu. “He likes stuff with chicken, that’ll work.”

Tucker involuntarily slips back to the last time they ate here, when _he_ ordered chicken cacciatore and Washington wouldn’t kiss him until he brushed his teeth. “Are you nuts?” he blurts out. “They make that with olives here. Wash fucking hates olives.”

York and North trade glances. Even South’s fingers pause over her phone. She arches an eyebrow at him pointedly, smirking at him like she’s got something to say. Tucker bristles in preparation for a comment he definitely isn’t in the mood to hear. But to his surprise, it’s not South that supplies it. 

“Gee, Tucker,” Church says mockingly, “You sure seem worried about what he eats.” 

The waitress’ smile goes stiff and uncomfortable. “Why don’t I give you all more time to think?” she says politely, shifting on her feet like she’s tired and wants to be anywhere but here.

North returns her smile with one of his own. The waitress sighs, but straightens up again under his gaze and gives him a nod. “That won’t be necessary,” he says smoothly, “We’re all ready to order.”

Tucker scowls down at his drink and angrily stabs his straw into it again just to watch the way it breaks. “Fuck, just order whatever. I don’t give a fuck what Wash eats. I just don’t want to have to listen to him bitching all night. Go ahead and get him something with olives, I don’t fucking care.” 

Someone--probably South or Church, knowing those two assholes--gives a tiny snort to signify how little they buy his words. But like he said, he doesn’t give a shit about Wash, and he cares even less about whether they believe him or not.

No one’s been paying attention to Caboose. Tucker realizes that’s a mistake at the same time everyone else does: when Caboose finishes his Jenga tower of stolen silverware and starts yanking knives out of the bottom. “The special of the day is gnocchi. If I get that, and Church gets that, and Wash gets that, then we will _all_ be special! Just like the pasta.”

Church pinches the bridge of his nose tightly.

South leans back in her chair with a grin that practically screams that she’s ready to start some trouble. “How ‘bout that, then?” she says with a sly smile, “Is that good enough for your boyfriend or not?”

North buries his face in his hands. “South, c’mon.”

“I just fucking told you I don’t _care_ whether Wash has an aneurysm, South, so shut the fuck up.” 

“Then it’s settled!” North interrupts quickly. He beams, and every muscle in his face looks like it was forced into position. “We’ll order gnocchi for Wash and let him pick his own drink when he gets here. How about everyone else?”

Everyone agrees.

They fall into an easy pattern, sniping at each other and stealing each others’ drinks, until finally North and York get a simultaneous text from Wash that leaves them both twisting around in their seats. Tucker follows their gaze across the room to where Wash is standing, conveniently not dying and with no emergency to speak of. He’s alive and well and perfectly fine. 

Tucker glares as Wash winds his way towards the table. He had seen Wash just this morning — they’d fucked each other into the bed and Wash had left so fast he’d forgotten his sweatshirt — but it still burns under his skin to see him, bright and hot and painful.

He watches bitterly as Wash laughs and greets everyone at the table as if he doesn’t notice or care that Tucker is sitting two seats away from him covered in bite marks that Washington put there just two nights ago. 

Wash sits down in the empty seat next to South. “I hope you got me something I like.”

_Too late to order something new._

Tucker snorts bitterly. “Yeah, well, if you wanted something you’d like, you should’ve gotten here earlier. Isn’t that what you used to say?”

 He waits for the words and the meaning to register in Wash’s mind, a tiny thrill going through him in preparation for the fallout, a frisson of spiteful pleasure that surges through his veins and makes his heart beat just a little bit faster.

Wash flinches before he can catch himself, hurt flashing behind his eyes for a few precious moments before he manages to hide it away. Then he builds himself up again piece by piece, back straightening and chin lifting as if he can make himself strong again with a few simple motions.

Tucker watches in fascination.

“Well, _Lavernius,_ ” Wash begins calmly, eyes narrowing in anticipation of a fight,  “unlike _some_ people, I don’t typically make a habit of--”

There’s the sudden clinking noise of a half a dozen pieces of silverware falling to the table. It startles everyone, and they all turn to stare, looking over at Caboose and his no-longer-a-dinner-fort. “Washington!” Caboose yells brightly. “Hello! We have so much in common now! “ 

Wash blinks very slowly, looking around as though he suspects someone of playing a joke on him, but when Tucker snickers, everything fades. Wash’s eyes blaze as he turns to Tucker, opening his mouth like it’s a portal to Hell and he wants nothing more than to swallow Tucker down.

Well, too fucking late. He already had his chance this morning. 

“What Caboose here means is that we ordered you both gnocchi,” York interrupts quickly. He smiles blithely when Wash and Tucker both turn to glare at him, ignoring them in favor of winking over at Caboose, who grins back at him. “We weren’t too sure about what to get you at first, but Caboose here saved the day by remembering what you like.”

Wash’s scowl softens as he looks down the table. “Thanks, Caboose,” he says, smiling fondly when Caboose practically lights up in response. 

Tucker rolls his eyes. Wash plays favorites, what else is new. 

Beaming, Caboose begins to rebuild his tower, but South makes the decision moot when she leans over and snags her fork and knife back from him. Feeling a bit vindictive, Tucker does the same, and Caboose makes a frowny face on his plate with the leftover table settings. Tucker does his best to ignore that.

Instead, he fidgets idly with the strings on his sweatshirt. It’s not really his shirt, but Wash’s, a relic of this morning’s “arrangement.” Tucker only brought it to have something to throw in Wash’s face. Just one way of saying, ‘See, Wash? _Some_ people can be considerate. Some people don’t leave their shit at other people’s apartments.’ 

Tucker scowls and scratches his nose with the sleeve. It smells like stupid flowery perfume. 

All of a sudden it’s like Tucker is transported to this morning, moving together with Washington underneath sheets that smelled like both of them. This morning, they were the center of each other’s universe. This afternoon, Wash can barely stand to look at him.

What a hypocritical assnugget.

Down the table, Wash and York are talking in undertones about something Tucker’s just a bit too far away to hear, and because Tucker isn’t _desperate_ , rather than lean closer to try and listen in, he decides to make a game of poking South from behind Church. 

It’s only after South looks up from her phone for the fourth time and grabs for her knife with a fierce grip that Tucker decides it’s probably a smart idea to stop. So instead of fucking around with someone who could kill him with her pinky, he looks across the table furtively.

York’s moved onto a conversation with North. It’s a loud conversation, in fact, and one that seems to be about the best type of skateboard to buy someone’s hypothetical fourteen-year old cousin. Wash isn’t taking the bait, however, even though Tucker’s listened to him talk about skateboard models for a full half-hour before. Instead he’s staring moodily at his glass of water like it’s abandoned him, taking all his hopes and dreams with it.

2005 called. They want their pop-punk angst back.

Just then, Wash looks up as if he’s heard Tucker’s thought. Their eyes meet, and Tucker freezes, stuck with two options: glare or look away? Let Wash know Tucker knows he’s a dick, or let Wash know Tucker doesn’t give a shit? Both are true. Washington is an asshole of the highest caliber. Tucker doesn’t care at all.

He watches as Wash swallows, watches him try for a smile. Insincerity doesn’t look good on him. Not that it ever did. Especially not now that Tucker knows the truth: that Wash didn’t find Tucker _satisfying_ until he dumped Tucker so he could fuck nobodies in bar bathrooms.

Thankfully, the waitress suddenly appears like magic, interrupting their held gazes by catching their attention when she places Tucker’s plate down in front of him. Washington breaks eye contact to look at the dish. Tucker’s eyes dart down too.

Chicken cacciatore.

Tucker can practically feel Wash’s gaze like a weight on his shoulders, but he doesn’t look up. Instead Tucker curls in on himself. He can feel his own warmth, concentrated in his chest, and every muscle in his body feels like it’s about to twitch out of his skin. 

Tucker swallows hard.

“Tucker?” Wash asks hesitantly. 

Tucker resists the urge to shove back his chair, race out of the restaurant and into the cold night air. Wash’s tone is so close to tones Tucker has branded in his brain, but they’re not the same. It’s not concern he’s hearing. Wash isn’t concerned about him anymore. Wash was never concerned about him. But he can’t let Wash know how much that bugs him, so Tucker straightens up and looks him dead in the eye.

“I’m fine if you’re fine,” Tucker says with his head held high.

“That’s good,” Wash says, staring back. “Then we’re both fine.”

Tucker bites his lip. His gaze drops. “They were going to order you the cacciatore,” he says quietly, stolen sweatshirt like a weight on his shoulders. “They put olives in it here, so I didn’t let them get it.” Just for a second, the whirling darkness threatens to take over again. “It wasn’t Caboose’s idea.” 

He refuses to look up, avoiding anyone’s eyes, choosing instead to poke at his food with his fork. He doesn’t know why he’s bringing it up, or why it’s suddenly so important that Wash knows it happened. It just is, that’s all.

He hears a sharp inhalation. It’s audible even over the bickering and conversation going on around them. He wonders if it was really as loud as it seems, or if he’s just more attuned to Wash than he’s supposed to be anymore. He wonders if Wash is just as attuned to him. 

The thought makes him peek up from his plate, glancing over even though he’s wary of what he might see. Washington is rolling his fork in his fingers and looking at Tucker in a way Tucker can’t parse -- normally, he’d call it apprehension, but that doesn’t make _sense_. This time Tucker did something _right_. 

“I don’t,” Wash clears his throat and tries again. “I don’t mind olives as much as I used to.” He fidgets nervously, then reaches across the table and snatches one off Tucker’s plate, popping it in his mouth to prove his point. He eats it with determination even as he winces at the taste, forcing it down with a resoluteness that doesn’t make sense. 

Tucker forgets how to feel. 

His face is frozen as he sits there watching, mind empty of anything resembling thoughts or words or emotions. Fucking _prick._ He can’t even let Tucker get this one thing right; even now Wash has to prove he’s screwed up.

Fine. _Fine._ Two can play at this game.  With just the tips of his fingers, he nudges his plate at Wash. “Cool. Want more?” And Wash freezes. Tucker smiles placidly at him, like he doesn’t know he’s caught Wash in a lie. Like he doesn’t know Wash was trying to find something wrong again, just to prove that dumping Tucker was a good move.

Wash’s eyes dart between Tucker’s plate and Tucker’s face. “Thanks,” Wash says, going back to rolling his fork shakily between his fingers. “But I, uh, have a lot of food. I don’t want to take all of yours. I know you like cacciatore.”

Tucker smiles wider, satisfaction running through his veins like a drug. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs to himself, and Wash’s eyes flash.

“But since you’re being so generous all of a sudden.” Wash reaches out with his fork this time and stabs into a big chunk of chicken, spearing an olive on each tine. Washington grimaces as he swallows. 

Tucker glares across the table and hopes he chokes.

* * *

 

**_THEN_ **

The first thing Tucker does when he sits down at the table across from Washington is to lean in and put on his very best leer, lowering his long eyelashes in a way he knows drives people crazy. “So,” he begins with a grin. “Come here often?”

Washington takes one look at him and buries his face in his hands. “That’s your opening move?” he says, words muffled slightly by the palms of his hands. “Tired old pickup lines? I don’t know why I’m even surprised.” 

His voice is dry, but Tucker can hear a tiny smile behind it. Even if Wash’s face is hidden, Tucker’s kind of an expert at his expressions by now. That tone, plus the joke he used… Tucker knows Wash’s mouth is twitching, trying to stay serious even as the corners of his eyes crinkle. And as Tucker snorts, Wash won’t be able to contain his smile. His face will slip even deeper into his hands as he tries to hide his amusement.

Tucker grins wider at the thought, elation thrumming deep within his chest, a fluttery feeling that’s as pleasant as it is unwelcome. This is kind of ridiculous. He can’t be _that_ happy at the _idea_ of someone’s smile. This is only a first date.

As Wash looks up, Tucker quickly moves his eyes to the menu, wary at giving anything away. But his voice betrays him when he speaks up, wavering hesitantly on the words. “So, uh… are you… what are you thinking about ordering? Because I’ve never had Thai before, so I could use some advice.”

Washington smiles as he looks down at the menu. It’s not the same smile Tucker imagined, but it’s just as good. “Depends what you like. Pad thai’s my favorite.”

“Yeah? I think I’ve heard of that before.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s one of the most popular dishes.” 

Washington looks up for a brief second, then darts his gaze back to the menu, something on Tucker’s face causing him to flush. He clears his throat. “The kai yang here’s good, you could try that.”

“You’ve been here before?” Tucker asks, like he doesn’t know already. Please. He definitely did his research before asking Wash here.

“I love Thai food,”  Wash admits. “This is one of my favorite restaurants.”

Tucker’s glad that his dark skin hides the light blush that rises up on his cheeks. “Oh?” he says blandly, making sure to keep his expression as neutral as his voice. “That’s cool. I just picked it out at random.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.”

From behind his menu, Tucker smiles and promises himself that this will be Wash’s Best Date Ever. Of all time. Tucker actually googled pickup lines so he’d have some new material. That’s how serious he is about tonight.

… Only, he doesn’t need them. Sure, he slips in a few here and there, but only to make Wash laugh, never to kickstart the conversation. The food is great, kudos to Tucker for picking the perfect restaurant. Wash is right about the kai yang, and so what if Tucker’s eyes water when he tries Wash’s extra-extra spicy pad thai? So what if he has to drink three glasses of water before he can feel his tastebuds? It’s _funny_. Walking home, Wash tells a story about Carolina, Tex, and a mechanical bull that makes Tucker actually have to sit down. The deadpan delivery only makes it better.

All that work and he didn’t even need it. Good call, past Tucker.

And once they’ve walked up the stairs to Wash’s tiny sixth-floor apartment (because Tucker walked Wash home, because he’s a _gentleman —_ the kind that doesn’t expect anyone to put out, too!), Wash pauses outside the door. “Tonight was--” He stops, and Tucker tries to look like the type of person who knows they did everything perfectly, thank you very much. “Tonight was way better than I thought it would be.”

“Wow, okay, dickface,” Tucker says instantly.

“Tucker.” Wash snorts. “I meant-- I thought we would do what we always do, only we’d get pizza from Domino’s instead of the hole in the wall across the street.” He shakes his head, and Tucker is suddenly acutely aware of how Wash’s hair moves. “This was nice. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Tucker says with some difficulty. He swallows hard, his mouth weirdly dry. “So, uh, you up for round two?”

Wash’s eyebrows furrow. “We… haven’t had round one yet.” 

Tucker’s eyes bug out at the innuendo. To his complete embarrassment, he feels butterflies fluttering in his chest. “Dude,” he breathes, “was that, like, an _option_? ‘Cause I didn’t mean it like that, but I’m totally down for it if you are. Like, a lot.” He pauses, then makes a face. “Not that I’m super eager or anything. ‘Cause I’m not. I’m just...regular eager? Enthusiastic, that’s it. Enthusiasm. I have so much of that.”

“Tucker!” Wash says through his laughter. He smiles, and _holy shit yes. “_ As nice as that sounds, my apartment is a mess right now. _”_

“So? My place is probably worse, and I’ve been there before, so--”

“First date, Tucker. Not third. ”

“Boo,” Tucker says, and Wash rolls his eyes.

“I’m not letting you see the results of forty-five minutes of me trying to pick a shirt. It’s not happening.” Wash leans down, and there’s a brief moment where Tucker wonders why his brain is having a heart attack before their lips connect.

Then the door clicks open, and Tucker barely gets a glimpse of the end of forty-five minutes of Wash trying to pick a shirt before Wash smiles at him. “Good night, Tucker,” he says.

“ 'Night, Wash,” Tucker responds as the door clicks shut, and as he stares at the peephole, he heaves a satisfied sigh. A perfect end to a perfect beginning. 

_You’re welcome, future Tucker._

_I hope you appreciate all I’ve done for you._

* * *

 

_“Think of this too: in all this world, you might have been happy, genuinely happy. Not one couple in a century has that chance, not really, no matter what the storybooks say, but you could have had it, and so, I would think, no one will ever suffer a loss as great as you.”_

_-William Goldman, The Princess Bride_

 


	3. Chapter 3

**PART THREE**

_“‘Said the mouse to the cur, ‘Such a trial, dear sir,_  
_With no jury or judge would be wasting our breath.’_  
_‘I’ll be judge, I’ll be jury,’ Said cunning old Fury;_  
_‘I’ll try the whole cause and condemn you to death.’”_  
_\- “The Mouse’s Tale” by Lewis Carroll._

**_THEN_ **

“So, just to be totally clear, I’m getting a giant soda, the butteriest popcorn they have, and Whoppers, and you’re getting... _carrot sticks_.”

Wash rolls his eyes, smiling fondly. Of course Tucker doesn’t approve of his _candy_ , of all things. “Swedish Fish. And water.”

“Same thing,” Tucker waves him off. “I can’t believe this. We’re at the movies and I just gave you a free pass to as much overpriced sugar as you want, and you want bitch candy and a water. A _small_ water.”

Wash snorts. “Would you rather I bankrupt you?”

“Yeah, maybe, if you weren’t gonna be a pussy about it!” Tucker points to the Whoppers in the display case, like Wash can’t tell that’s what he’s getting. “Movie candy, dude. Movie. Candy. Tastes better at the movies. It’s in the name!”

“Fine,” Wash laughs. “Then I’ll steal some of yours.” He looks around at the long line forming behind them and frowns at the crowd. “If we want good seats, we should split up here.”

“Huh?” Tucker says. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“I’ll go. Theater four, remember.” Wash is two steps away before he thinks of something and turns. “And don’t get me Sour Patches to surprise me, I’ll never forgive you if I don’t get my Swedish Fish.”

Tucker bats a hand at him. “Yeah, yeah. Go get the center seats, at least two rows away from anyone who’s less than, like, nine.”

“Picky, picky,” Wash retorts. Tucker grins at him, and Wash feels light inside. He could do this all day… but the line is actually getting long, and he does need to go.

“Hey, Wash!” Tucker hollers after him, like an afterthought.

“What?” Wash calls over his shoulder, twenty feet away and still walking, for once uncaring of the way people stop to stare.

“I hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go!” 

And it’s terrible, it’s so terrible, that Wash can’t help but laugh.

* * *

 

**_NOW_ **

The noise from the TV blares loud, the sound of it painful to Washington’s ears. He’s still got a hangover from the night before, the sight of Tucker’s glare haunting him for the rest of the evening and pushing him toward a half-filled bottle leftover from the last time they were together.

He rubs his temples and leans back into the couch cushion.

“Tired, bro?” Tucker say mockingly. 

Washington looks up to see Tucker smirking down at him. Obnoxiously, he sits down on the arm of the couch, a beer loose in his hand, leaning in close like he did when they were still dating. In the past, he would have faked like he was going in for a kiss -- on the forehead, or the cheek, or the lips if he was feeling really daring -- and Wash would have dodged, punched him in the shoulder or cuffed his head the way they always did. 

Sometimes, if the two of them had too much to drink, he’d even let Tucker climb onto his lap. They’d sit there, surrounded by their friends, arms wrapped tight around each other’s bodies as they relaxed until they were almost limp, and together they would drift off to sleep.

Wash lets his eyes slip shut, like maybe if he can’t see Tucker, he’ll just stop existing. Like if he ignores the memories, they won’t rise up to swallow him whole.

“Guess I was right,” Tucker snorts, and Wash groans, head tipping back. “Wow, someone had a fun night last night, didn’t he?”

Wash’s eyes flicker open, only to find Tucker staring at him hard, almost in challenge. Wash stares back, sitting up and reaching out. He’s not going to have this conversation without a drink, and since Tucker was kind enough to bring one over--

Wash snags the bottle, taking a gulp before the surprise even registers on Tucker’s face. Something unidentifiable passes through his eyes, and then it’s gone, back to that insouciant look Wash knows so well.

“Day drinking already, huh?” Tucker says, because he’s a dick like that, always has been, irritating enough to single Wash out in a room full of people with beer in their hands, when it’s his own bottle that’s between Wash’s lips. Bow chicka bow wow not intended.

“I guess you’d know, Tucker,” Wash says, his voice neutral as he turns his eyes to the TV screen. He stares at it blankly, unable to even tell who’s playing or what sport is on the screen. It’s like his eyes don’t seem to want to settle anywhere, like his brain is stalling and can’t recover. 

Tucker always was the only person who was ever able to turn him upside down without trying.

He’s a little irritated to find the bottle is empty with his next swig, because he desperately feels like he needs the alcohol. Anyone would, if they had to deal with Tucker, especially if they were in Washington’s situation. That is to say, hungover, with increasing frustration looming on the horizon.

Tucker studies him with narrowed eyes. “Aren’t you always telling people to slow down?” he says almost accusingly. “What, it’s okay for you, but not for everyone else?”

“I never said it wasn’t okay for everyone else,” Washington replies in a stiff voice.

“You sure as fuck implied it!”

Wash grits his teeth, relishing the slight ache in his jaw. It’s a welcome distraction from Tucker right now, even if it’s one that won’t last for long. “I never said it wasn’t okay for everyone else,” Washington repeats, “I just wanted you to be—”

“Oh, so it’s just me, then?” Tucker snaps.

Wash exhales through his nose, pushing himself onto his feet. They’re done here. “I’m getting another drink,” he informs Tucker. “Would you like anything, _Lavernius?_ ”

As usual, the sound of his first name coming from Wash’s lips causes Tucker to stiffen angrily.

“Blow me,” Tucker snaps.

Wash is saying the words almost before he thinks of them. “As you wish, _Buttercup_ ,” he spits sweetly, giving a nod of the head as if he’s bowing. It fits, since Tucker’s being an absolute brat right now, but also because he’s...because Wash is....

Washington shakes his head wildly. 

He needs that beer. He needs it _right now_.

He strides towards the kitchen and Tucker scrambles after him, full of energy all of a sudden. His ability to bounce back has always been one of Tucker’s most fascinating qualities, the one Washington most admired and wished to emulate.

Well, Wash is about to demonstrate the runner-up.

He slides the fridge open, completely aware of Tucker’s eyes on his back, and feigns total ignorance as he bends almost double to look for the _perfect_ beer. Wash takes no notice of Tucker as he finds a bottle opener, pops the cap off. Only when he’s ready to take that first sip does he turn and look his ex-boyfriend in the eye.

While Tucker watches, Washington wraps his mouth around the bottle and draws his neck back, showing off its long lines as he drinks and drinks and drinks, throat working as he swallows it down without stopping.

The show doesn’t end until he’s finished the bottle, and only then does Washington slip his mouth off with a loud pop, drawing Tucker’s attention back up to his lips. He licks them while smirking slightly, satisfied when the action makes Tucker gulp hard. 

“What was that you were saying?” Washington says innocently.

Tucker jolts and tries his best to shake it off.  “Uh...I--uh, what?” he stammers, looking vaguely stunned. He blinks hard as he gazes off at nothing, open confusion mixed with lust written all over his face. “Wait…”

His eyes widen as he finally remembers. Washington nods, quashing the uncertainty that’s welling up inside of him in favor of forcing himself to keep the sheer _want_ off of his face. He pushes the smirk back on and tilts his chin up, absentmindedly placing the bottle on the nearest counter.

Tucker’s dark eyes turn almost black. “I said ‘blow me.’”

Washington tilts his head in a tiny nod. A small, yet far too earnest smile plays on his lips, devoid of anything approaching satisfaction or smugness, something that causes Wash to wince internally. But at least his voice remains steady when he tells Tucker to lead the way. 

Nobody can find fault in that.

By the time they come out of the bathroom, over twenty minutes have passed, and the trek back to the living room feels like a walk of shame. Everyone is staring as Tucker struts in ahead of him, seemingly unconcerned with the looks they are getting. 

As Wash follows, Carolina’s eyes skate past Tucker and onto him. She looks him once over, and then her eyebrows shoot into her hairline. _Fuck._ Wash runs his sleeve over his face again, sure that he’s washed away any visual evidence and dried his blushing cheeks.

Carolina bites her lip, pointing at her shoulder, and Wash looks at the mirrored spot on himself.

The others notice it just seconds after he does, when Tucker lets out a barking laugh: a streak of white on the hoodie he just got back _yesterday_. Some disconnected part of Wash’s brain hopes it’s not going to stain. He likes this hoodie, soft and green and worn in all the right places.

The rest of him flushes even brighter and tries to scrub it away with his sleeve.

“... Wow,” Church says finally. “I mean, I knew Tucker was shameless, but _you?_ Wash, I thought you had standards.” Something nauseous twists in Wash’s stomach. He’s not gonna examine the myriad reasons for that too closely.

“Hey, shut the fuck up!” Tucker snaps, whirling on Church, who jumps.

“What the fuck, Tucker?!” Church looks half-annoyed, half-confused, and Wash has to say he feels the same. Tucker always does this, runs hot and cold until Wash can’t think straight. It would piss him off if he didn’t miss it so desperately.

“I--” Tucker freezes, steals a glance at Wash, then glares back at Church. “What’s this shit about _standards_ , I’m way out of his league!”

… Oh. Yeah. That makes more sense.

“Ex _cuse_ me?!” Wash takes a step towards Tucker, even though he can’t say quite why he’s surprised. Tucker mirrors him, and then they’re both shouting so loud they can barely hear each other. “Out of _your_ league?! Of course, no wonder you steal my clothes and then--”

“I didn’t steal jack shit, you’re a fucking tool who blames me for--”

“Right, out of your league, that’s why you’re always fucking _begging_ for--”

“Alright!” York says brightly, clapping his hands together. “How about we finish watching that game!” 

Wash freezes, inches from Tucker’s nose, suddenly aware of every eye in the room on him. Church, York, North -- _Carolina_ , oh god -- and all of their friends saw… heard… that. All of that.

He swallows hard, about to take a step back, when flashes of irritation and disappointment run through Tucker’s eyes, almost as though he knows that Wash is about to back down and is angry about it. Annoyance rises up, but is quickly squashed. Washington has been humiliated enough for one night. No amount of scorn from Tucker will make him forget that there are ten pairs of eyes on them.

Wash inhales sharply. “I—”

“Wash,” North says, jerking his head towards the hall, “Can I talk to you?”

Wash nods, following wordlessly. As he steps over Maine’s legs, past the coffee table, York claps him on the back. “Cheer up, man. That’ll probably wash out.” Wash squinches his eyes shut, breathes deeply,  and thanks him. Insincerely. He’s in the worst possible mood for one of North’s lectures, but it’s still better than here, with Tucker’s eyes on his back and every apology he’s too embarrassed to deliver hanging in the air.

Out in the hallway, North looks at him sadly, concern turning his gaze soft and his eyes kind. “You can't keep doing this to yourself, Wash,” he says low enough for only them to hear. He places a hand on Washington’s shoulder-- _not_ the one with the come on it. “It's not healthy. For _either_ of you.”

Wash pretends he doesn't know what North is talking about. “We weren’t--we _aren’t_ doing anything,” he responds without meeting North’s eyes. “We were just talking.”

North doesn’t even dignify that with a reply. Instead, he ducks his head in order to meet Washington’s eyes dead on, holding his gaze with a solemnity that he usually doesn’t show. “You know this isn’t going to change anything, right?”

Washington forces steel into his gaze. “I don’t want to change anything,” he tells himself as much as he does North. “I’m happy like this. I already know I made the right decision when I broke things off. This was just...letting off some steam.”

“... Right,” North nods slowly. “And your neck?”

Washington colors. “What about my neck?”

North slides his hand up Wash’s shoulder and tentatively pokes at a sore spot there, where Tucker’s mouth had been just a few minutes ago, after they’d kissed and kissed, after Tucker was spent.

“That’s going to take a few days to heal.”

 _Good_ , Washington thinks before he can stop himself. He immediately stills, startled and ashamed at the thought, heart actually skipping a beat thanks to his sudden panic.

“I don’t--” Wash starts. He pauses. Thinks. Tries again, tries to put it in a way North will understand. “I got -- I had unrealistic expectations for Tucker, when we were dating. This is something casual, it’s what he’s good at. In a way, he’s teaching me.” 

It’s true. Wash would even be grateful if Tucker weren’t so smug about it.

“Really,” North says. Wash can’t tell if he’s sarcastic or disapproving or somewhere in the middle, and that indefinite tone makes him uneasy.

“Really,” he promises. “Tucker was a terrible boyfriend. He was late to everything, he-- ugh, you remember that picnic? He had one job, to bring extra sunscreen, and he showed up two hours late with a jar of olives and a terrible excuse.”

“I remember that,” North says, his voice totally neutral, and Wash knows he’s not explaining this right, knows North isn’t getting it.

“And when I asked him about it, all he had to say for himself was that I needed to get off his case, because it wasn’t his fault that I burn easy. As if that was even the point!”

North stares at him. “And what was the point?”

“The point was that it was his job to bring the damn sunscreen!” Washington screeches, voice cracking on the last word. Back in the living room, there are footsteps and then the sound of the front door slamming shut. 

Wash flushes at the reminder that they aren’t exactly alone. Distantly, he can still hear the sound of the television, as well as the sudden drop in background conversation. He deflates, shoulders slumping, and brings a hand up to tiredly run his fingers through his hair.

“The point-- my point was, it doesn’t matter. Tucker and I were never going to work out. This is way easier,” Wash continues, certain that this time North will get it. It’s not exactly complicated, their relationship. There’s even a word for that, for what the two of them have together. “It’s… no strings.” 

North’s eyes lock onto his, gaze steady. “For Tucker, or for you?”

And that, Washington doesn’t know the answer to.

* * *

 

_**THEN**  
_

Across the table from Wash, his father shifts in his seat, and Washington checks his phone for the fourth time. There is one new text message. _From Tucker: sry, brt._ Be right there, Wash guesses. Hasty and uncommunicative, just like his boyfriend.

He looks up and smiles tensely at his father. “He got a little caught up at work,” Washington lies, because that at least is something his father can understand. “He says he’ll be here in ten minutes or so.”

He hopes it’s true, he really does, but somehow he doubts it will actually happen. Tucker has never been on time for anything in his life. Wash should’ve known that something as small as begging him to be punctual for once wouldn’t change anything.

Tucker finally shows up twenty minutes later. For a second, Wash feels relief settle in his chest, which lasts only until he looks across the table and sees his father’s expression. Neutral. Dangerously so.

Carolina gives him a sympathetic look.

His father clears his throat pointedly, leveling a _look_ at Tucker the moment their eyes meet. “We ordered without you,” he says stiffly. The grin he gets in reply is as confident as it is false, though no one but Wash seems to notice. He’s grateful for Tucker not taking the bait anyway, so much so that he doesn’t immediately pull away when Tucker squeezes his hand under the table.

Tucker’s smile falters when he does eventually pull his hand away. Wash feels a stab of regret for that, but it’s really not the time and it’s definitely not the place, not with Wash’s father sitting two feet in front of them waiting for something else to disapprove of. 

Thankfully, none of Tucker’s unhappiness shows in his voice, which sounds just as self-assured as it always does when he replies. “That’s cool, man,” he says carelessly, “Wash knows what I like.”

It’s another strike against him. The only thing his father hates more than someone being late is someone refusing to acknowledge that they did anything wrong--especially when _he’s_ the one who is helpfully pointing it out. Tucker has no idea what he’s doing.

Wash’s father gives a dry, tight smile. “Mm. Yes, I imagine that helps speed things up considerably.”

“Like I said, Tucker got caught up at work,” Wash blurts out, balling his napkin in his fists under the table. He winces when everyone’s eyes turn to him. He’s only had water to drink tonight and his stomach’s already in knots. He wants Tucker’s hand back in his to soothe the nerves away, but he knows he already lost his chance.

His father’s jaw clenches at the interruption and shoots him a look of displeasure. It’s nothing that Washington isn’t used to, but it seems so much worse tonight. Wash doesn’t want to mess this up. Carolina and Tucker already get along fine, but he knows that getting his father on board won’t be nearly as easy as that. It’ll work so much better if he doesn’t mess things up on his own.

Tucker glances back and forth between them, frowning at the sudden silence from Wash’s end. It’s obvious that he can tell that something is wrong, but to Wash’s relief Tucker doesn’t let on. Instead, he snaps a grin back onto his face and leans back casually in his chair.

“Yeah, it was pretty hectic,” Tucker replies, “Palomo was late _again_ and we got this sudden rush of people ‘cause the game started at eight, so I had to cover until he showed up. Two guys tried to start a bar fight over which team was gonna win, too, so even after Palomo showed up I had to clean up the broken glass.” Tucker rolls his eyes. “I should’ve made him do it and just left, but then there would have been no one on tap.”

“That’s very responsible of you, Tucker,” Carolina says without a hint of sarcasm or teasing in her voice, and Wash is so, so grateful for his sister in that moment. Any other time she would be making fun of the both of them for their nerves, but this time, at least, she’s on their side.

That is, until Tucker responds and makes her give a cautious frown. “Yeah, I guess,” he says with a shrug, “I should totally get a raise for having to babysit Palomo all the time. That was _not_ in the job description, you know? Dude’s always late for everything or just fucking things up.”

“How unacceptable.” the Director says icily. 

Wash bites his lip. He’d decided not to coach Tucker on how to talk to his father, figuring that would have been taking things too far, but now he’s worried that was a mistake. Wash had thought Tucker could handle this.

He can feel his skin crawling, suddenly hyperaware of the Director’s calm gaze, the way Carolina’s biting her lip across the table like she’s trying to figure out a way to save this and-- so, so aware of Tucker next to him, _still talking._

“One time he-- Oh, god, our manager, right? She’s kind of a bitch but it’s mostly just her being intense, like Carolina--” 

The Director’s eyebrows turn down, furrowing in an almost confused sort of way, as if he can’t believe one person can be this objectionable. Wash winces at the sight and suppresses the urge to grab Tucker’s arm and squeeze until he’s quiet. 

“Okay, dude, so our manager said that he was supposed to go clean the tables before the normal bunch of drunks comes in, right? And he was all—”

“Tucker!” Wash cuts in desperately. “I’m sure my father doesn’t need to hear the details of what Palomo’s like at work.”

“No, David,” The Director says. “This dinner was so I could get to know your… new boyfriend.”

 _Shit._ Washington sits straight up in his chair, stiff as a board. Tucker doesn’t know it, but his father only calls him David when he’s displeased with him. Carolina understands, at least, and gives his hands a comforting squeeze where no one can see.

He tries to kick Tucker under the table to get him to shut up, but all that does is make him send Wash an unreasonably calm look on his face, like he’s thinking, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got this” in Wash’s general direction.

 _You really, really don’t_ , Washington thinks.

Tucker nods at him, and keeps going as if he didn’t hear any of them. “So there’s this one guy who’s practically an alcoholic, with all the time that he spends at the bar, but whatever, because drunk guys give the best tips—”

“Tucker,” Wash tries.

“And so Palomo started whining about having to wipe down his table -- because he always sits at the same one, because he always shows up pretty much right when we open, right? -- because, get this, ‘He’s just gonna puke on it anyways’. Seriously!”

“Charming,” the Director deadpans, and Wash knows he’s not talking about Tucker’s coworkers. He jumps to his feet, shoving his chair back.

“Um, excuse me,” He says, his face hot, already stepping towards the hall. Wash looks at his father, almost nauseous at the expression he finds. How has this gone wrong _already_? “I need to just-- I’ll be right back, sir.”

As Wash walks towards the bathroom -- not too fast, like he’s going to puke, but a lot slower than he wants to go -- he looks over his shoulder at Tucker, who’s gazing after him with a worried look on his face.

He’s glad to see the expression disappear upon the closing of the door.

Washington sighs as he wanders over to the sink and takes a deep breath before running a paper towel under cold water. This is going to be -- not perfect, but fine. Carolina’s on his side, they have time left in the evening-- the food hasn’t even gotten to the table yet. He and Carolina can fix this. He presses his makeshift washcloth to his face, breathing deeply. Everyone just has to get through one night, then Wash never has to sit at a table with his boyfriend and his father ever again.

He’s just about calmed himself down when the door flies open suddenly, startling him.

 Washington whirls, hands already clenched, only to see his boyfriend there, shaking his head wildly like he’s admonishing himself. “You didn’t tell me your dad was _that_ intense!” Tucker bursts out. “Jesus, now I know where you two get it from.”

Wash gives Tucker his least impressed look. “What are you doing here?” He demands to know. “Why aren’t you back at the table!?”

Tucker doesn’t seem to hear, heaving a huge sigh as he leans back against the door, whole body resting against it as if he’s too exhausted to hold himself up straight. “I was practically freaking out back there,” he mutters.

“I couldn’t tell,” Wash says sarcastically. 

“Dude, shut up,” Tucker says with a plaintive frown. He rubs his fingers over the top of his head, a nervous gesture that Washington rarely sees from him. “I couldn’t stop talking. I kept telling myself to, but I couldn’t. It was like my mouth was running on autopilot.”

Wash bites his lip. Tucker’s not even looking at him. He feels like he should reach out, pat him on the shoulder or _something_ , but fuck it, Wash is in no mood to play nice.

“Yeah, what was that?” he says harshly, voice cracking midway through the sentence. “Anything in the world to talk about and you picked Palomo and the drunk customers at the bar?!” 

“I don’t know, your dad said he was into it! I couldn’t exactly stop at that point!”

“It’s fine!” Wash snaps. It’s really, really not, but whatever. “We can’t stay in the bathroom too long or he’s going to think we’re doing god knows _what_ in here, and that won’t exactly give him the right impression of you. Remember: the whole point of tonight is so that he can get to know you.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because that’s going so well.”

“Tucker, just--” Wash takes a deep breath. This is going to be _fine._ “Don’t talk about working at the bar. Don’t call him dude. He’s sir, or Dr. Church. Don’t swear. Try not to swear. Swear less.”

Tucker opens his mouth. Wash can almost hear the four choice expletives he’s sure his boyfriend has lined up, but he’s not in the mood to hear them or any more of Tucker’s _bullshit_ right now.

“I don’t care. Don’t do it.” Wash cuts him off. He balls up his paper towel and chucks it in the garbage, trying to clear his head. That was the entire reason he came to the bathroom in the first place. “Try not to insult Carolina. If she gives you an out, go with it. Tonight she’s on your side. Don’t make sex jokes. If Tex comes up, definitely don’t insult her.”

“So basically, don’t talk.”

Tucker looks at him evenly—almost _blankly_ \--and takes a step out of the way when Washington moves over to his side.

Wash shoves the door open, walking out without looking back. “If that’s what it takes,” he shoots back over his shoulder and lets the door slip shut behind him. He sinks into his seat, exhausted, and when Tucker sits down next to him, neither of them talk until the Director addresses them.

The rest of the evening goes about as well as the beginning, what with Tucker managing to both spill his soup all over the Director’s lap and piss everyone off by faux-flirting with both Carolina and the waitress. It’s like Tucker’s _trying_ to show Wash just how little he cares, trying his best to do everything Wash told him not to.

Washington spends the whole drive home fuming about it, thankful that Tucker isn't there to make it worse with his careless disregard. He doesn't know what he'd do if he had to deal with his boyfriend right now. Accidentally crash the car as a result of not paying attention, maybe, though Wash likes to think he'd be more calm than that.

...but then, who is he kidding? He’s never been what you’d call _calm_ around Tucker.

Tucker gets under his skin in the best possible way, taking up residence in Wash’s mind so that his presence lingers long after he himself has left. It’s something Wash has been thankful for: Tucker’s never far from his mind, and that’s always been nice. Now Wash can’t stop replaying the dinner, Tucker’s insolent smirks and bored eyerolls, doing everything wrong and relishing in Wash’s fury.

Pulling up to the curb, Wash can see Tucker’s car already parked and his boyfriend sitting on the stoop, waving to Washington as he gets out of the car. Of course _now_ he can be early. Now that it doesn’t matter anymore.

All Washington wanted was for his father to like Tucker. For meeting the family to go well. It’s such a small thing; why was that too much to ask for?

Tucker’s smile falters as Wash sweeps past him, fumbling the keys into the lock. He doesn’t say anything as Washington presses the elevator button, for which Washington is startlingly gratified, and when the elevator finally arrives, they step inside in total silence.

Tucker knows better than to press his luck.

Washington stalks inside the apartment with Tucker following close behind, trotting along at his heels like he’s afraid that Wash is gonna leave him behind. “Wash, c’mon,” Tucker says almost pleadingly, “You know it’s not that big of a deal.”

“Not a big—”

Wash shakes his head furiously, temper flaring every second in a way he’s never felt before. Not with Tucker, anyway. With Felix, with Locus, with people who are purposely cruel. But not at Tucker. Never at Tucker. 

“You _knew_ how important this was to me!” Washington spits out in a bitter, broken tone. “You _knew_ how much it meant to me that this night go well. You just didn’t care. You _never_ care about anything but yourself.”

Tucker swallows hard. “Wash--”

“No,” Wash spits out. He inhales sharply and hunches over as if his back’s not strong enough to keep him up, then abruptly stands up straight and looks him dead in the eye. “You can stay here. I’m going to find somewhere else to sleep for the night.”

Wash turns on his heel, meaning to go. York will probably put him up, because _he_ actually gives a shit in the end. And if York won’t, then North will. But before he can take even a small step, seven words from Tucker makes him stop dead in his tracks. 

“Hey,” Tucker says, his voice loud in the quiet room. “Lemme make it up to you.” Wash looks over his shoulder, and Tucker gazes back at him evenly, hands not faltering as they unbutton the shirt Wash picked out for him.

“Tucker,” Washington says tightly. “This isn’t the time for—” 

Tucker smiles. It’s a small smile, and tired at that, but it’s there and it’s familiar in a way that Washington has always found attractive. “C’mon, Wash,” Tucker cajols. His eyelashes lower seductively. “You know I can’t fuck this up, at least.”

 _No,_ Wash thinks, _you never have_.

Tucker’s smile shifts into something more honest, almost as though he heard Wash’s thought. For a second, it’s like the bad evening never happened. For a moment, he can pretend that everything is fine.

So Washington turns back to Tucker, closes his eyes and lets himself forget for one night.

 


End file.
